Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/212

"All now is lost!—Yet no; One Comfort more
"Of Life remains, my much-lov'd Polydore,
"My youngest Hope: Here on this Coast he lives,
"Nurs'd by the Guardian-King he still survives.
"Then let me hasten to the cleansing Flood,
"And wash away these Stains of guiltless Blood.
Strait to the Shore her feeble Steps repair
With limping Pace, and torn dishevell'd Hair
Silver'd with Age. "Give me an Urn, she cry'd,
'To bear back Water from this swelling Tide:
When on the Banks her Son in ghastly Hue
Transfix'd with Thracian Arrows strikes her View.
The Matron shriek'd; her big-swoln Grief surpass'd
The Pow'r of Utterance; she stood aghast;
She had nor Speech, nor Tears to give Relief;
Excess of Woe suppress'd the rising Grief.
Lifeless as Stone, on Earth she fix'd her Eyes;
And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild Surprise.
Now she contemplates o'er with sad Delight
Her Son's pale Visage; then her aking Sight
Dwells on his Wounds: She varies thus by turns,
Till with collected Rage at length she burns,
Wild as the Mother-Lion, when among
The Haunts of Prey she seeks her ravish'd Young:
Swift flies the Ravisher; she marks his Trace,
And by the Print directs her anxious Chase.
So Hecuba with mingled Grief, and Rage
Pursues the King, regardless of her Age.
She greets the Murd'rer with dissembled Joy
Of secret Treasure hoarded for her Boy.
The specious Tale th' unwary King betray'd
Fir'd with the Hopes of Prey: "Give quick, he said
"With soft enticing Speech, the promis'd Store:
"Whate'er you give, you give to Polydore.
"Your Son, by the immortal Gods I swear,
"Shall this with all your former Bounty share.

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